Sarah Teasdale

Sarah Teasdale

1884–1933 · lived 48 years -- --

Sara Teasdale was an influential American lyric poet celebrated for her emotionally resonant and accessible verse. Her work often explores themes of love, nature, loss, and the inner life of women with a delicate yet powerful voice. Teasdale's poems, characterized by their musicality and lyrical beauty, garnered significant popularity during her lifetime and continue to be cherished for their timeless exploration of the human heart.

n. 1884-08-08, St. Louis · m. 1933-01-29, Nova Iorque

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A November Night

A November Night
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street --
Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
And you could play with it. You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious. We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you -- four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade. The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay -- and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake --
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little. How I long to take


One from the cold black water -- new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl -- if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night --
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem -- but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone --
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone. We two alone!
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Sara Teasdale was an American lyric poet. She was born Sara Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri. She later married and became known as Sara Teasdale Filsinger. Her family background was rooted in the American Midwest, with her father being a successful businessman. She was of English and Scottish descent. She was an American national and wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Teasdale grew up in a comfortable middle-class home in St. Louis. She was a delicate child and suffered from various ailments, which led to her being educated primarily at home. She received instruction from tutors and pursued extensive self-study, developing a deep love for literature and poetry. Her early readings included the works of Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, and Christina Rossetti. She was also influenced by the natural world, spending much time outdoors.

Literary trajectory

Teasdale began writing poetry at a young age, with her first published poem appearing in 'Reedy's Mirror' in 1907. Her first collection, 'Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems', was published in 1907. She gained wider recognition with 'Rivers to the Sea' (1915), which became a bestseller. Her subsequent collections, including 'Love Songs' (1917), 'Flame and Shadow' (1920), and 'Dark of the Moon' (1926), further solidified her reputation as a leading American poet. She was an active participant in the literary circles of her time.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Teasdale's major works include 'Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems' (1907), 'The Anemone' (1911), 'Rivers to the Sea' (1915), 'Love Songs' (1917), 'Flame and Shadow' (1920), 'Helen of Troy and Other Poems' (1922), and 'Dark of the Moon' (1926). Her dominant themes revolve around love, loss, nature, the passage of time, and the introspective experiences of women. Her style is characterized by its lyrical beauty, musicality, clarity, and emotional directness. She frequently employed traditional forms like the sonnet but also wrote in free verse. Her poetic voice is often tender, reflective, and deeply personal, conveying a sense of quiet strength and vulnerability. Her language is precise and evocative, with a focus on imagery drawn from nature.

Cultural and historical context

Teasdale was active during the early 20th century, a period of significant change in American society and literature. She was associated with the Imagist movement, though her style was more consistently lyrical and romantic than strictly Imagist. She was a contemporary of poets like Amy Lowell, H.D., and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Her work reflected the broader cultural interest in introspection and the personal lives of women that was emerging during this era.

Personal life

Teasdale's personal life was marked by periods of intense joy and profound sorrow. Her marriage to Ernest B. Filsinger, an executive, was initially happy but later became strained, contributing to themes of loneliness and heartbreak in her poetry. She struggled with health issues throughout her life. Her deep connection to nature and her contemplative nature informed her creative process.

Recognition and reception

Teasdale achieved considerable popularity and critical acclaim during her lifetime. 'Rivers to the Sea' was a bestseller, and her poems were widely published in popular magazines. She was the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1918 for her collection 'Love Songs'. Her accessible style and relatable themes made her a beloved figure among readers, though some critics sometimes viewed her work as overly sentimental.

Influences and legacy

Teasdale was influenced by earlier Romantic poets and by the Imagist movement. Her lyrical style and focus on emotion influenced subsequent generations of poets, particularly women poets. Her exploration of feminine experience and her accessible yet profound verse have ensured her enduring place in American poetry. Her work continues to be studied for its emotional depth and skillful use of language.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Teasdale's poetry is often interpreted through the lens of feminist literary criticism, examining her portrayal of women's experiences, desires, and emotional lives. Her themes of love and loss are explored with a nuanced understanding of human relationships. Critics have noted the delicate balance she strikes between personal confession and universal sentiment.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Teasdale was known for her beauty and was once considered a potential film actress. She was a close friend of Vachel Lindsay, another prominent poet, though their relationship was complex. She was also an avid gardener, and her deep connection to nature was a significant source of inspiration.

Death and memory

Sara Teasdale died by suicide in 1933, a tragic end to a life marked by both poetic brilliance and personal struggle. Her collected poems have been published posthumously, ensuring her legacy and continued appreciation by readers and scholars.

Poems

74

The Return

The Return
He has come, he is here,
My love has come home,
The minutes are lighter
Than flying foam,
The hours are like dancers
On gold-slippered feet,
The days are young runners
Naked and fleet --
For my love has returned,
He is home, he is here,
In the whole world no other
Is dear as my dear!
339

The Sanctuary

The Sanctuary
If I could keep my innermost Me
Fearless, aloof and free
Of the least breath of love or hate,
And not disconsolate
At the sick load of sorrow laid on men;
If I could keep a sanctuary there
Free even of prayer,
If I could do this, then,
With quiet candor as I grew more wise
I could look even at God with grave forgiving eyes.
354

The Net

The Net
I made you many and many a song,
Yet never one told all you are --
It was as though a net of words
Were flung to catch a star;
It was as though I curved my hand
And dipped sea-water eagerly,
Only to find it lost the blue
Dark splendor of the sea.
414

The Look

The Look
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
338

The Giver

The Giver
You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.
Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.
464

The Lamp

The Lamp
If I can bear your love like a lamp before me,
When I go down the long steep Road of Darkness,
I shall not fear the everlasting shadows,
Nor cry in terror.
If I can find out God, then I shall find Him,
If none can find Him, then I shall sleep soundly,
Knowing how well on earth your love sufficed me,
A lamp in darkness.
385

The Crystal Gazer

The Crystal Gazer
I shall gather myself into my self again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.
I Shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent.
Watching the future come and the present go -
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In tiny self-importance to and fro.
440

The Garden

The Garden
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain --
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten --
After the stillness, will spring come again?
721

Sunset: St. Louis

Sunset: St. Louis
Hushed in the smoky haze of summer sunset,
When I came home again from far-off places,
How many times I saw my western city
Dream by her river.
Then for an hour the water wore a mantle
Of tawny gold and mauve and misted turquoise
Under the tall and darkened arches bearing
Gray, high-flung bridges.
Against the sunset, water-towers and steeples
Flickered with fire up the slope to westward,
And old warehouses poured their purple shadows
Across the levee.
High over them the black train swept with thunder,
Cleaving the city, leaving far beneath it
Wharf-boats moored beside the old side-wheelers
Resting in twilight.
398

The Answer

The Answer
When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:
"Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion --
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy.
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her --
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy."
457

Quotes

19

Videos

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